Swains Lock by Edward A Stabler

Author:Edward A Stabler [Stabler, Edward A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-01-12T22:00:00+00:00

***

In the kitchen of the lockhouse at Swains, Cy arrayed four pint-flasks of whiskey on the scarred wooden table next to his untapped five-gallon cask. He’d sold fourteen pints on Wednesday, seventeen on Thursday, and five so far today at the lock, all at a dollar seventy-five. He grabbed a ceramic jar from the counter, fished out his roll of bills, and rifled through it. Sixty-eight dollars. He pocketed a handful of coins, peeled off a dozen dollar bills, and stashed the rest back in the jar.

The flasks on the table had drained the first five-gallon cask, but the second cask was full, so he had forty-four pints of whiskey left. Selling another eight tonight would give him enough to pay the Emorys when they came through tomorrow, plus a little to spare. Hell, he could probably even sell a few pints Saturday morning before the Emorys arrived. But selling whiskey tonight was critical. With the repair crews around and a few weekend sightseers, there should be enough potential customers at the Great Falls Tavern. “Tavern,” he muttered derisively. “A tavern that don’t sell nothing to drink.” Bad for the patrons, but an opportunity for Cy. A sudden stab of pain in his left hip overrode the usual dull ache. He grimaced and an image of Zimmerman intruded on his thoughts.

To banish it and fend off the pain, he pulled out his personal flask for a quick shot. He caught his breath and limped over to the crate in the corner to study the rows of empty, cork-topped bottles inside. Forty-eight, and I’ll need almost that many to empty the second cask, he thought. He withdrew four flasks, filled them with fast-running whiskey, then corked them on the table alongside the first four. Eight was all he wanted to carry to the Tavern tonight. His pocket watch read quarter to five – might as well head over. He distributed the pints into the pockets of his wool jacket and overcoat. There was no place for his personal flask, so he left it on the table. He snatched his hat from a hook and walked outside. Katie was sitting on the bench in front of the lockhouse.

“Cyrus, aren’t you feeling well? You’re bundled up like you’re going to the North Pole!”

“Never mind that,” he grumbled. “You know which way the crow flies. I’m headed down to Great Falls, so count me out for dinner.” He adjusted the contours of his hat and put it on. “You feed the mules?”

Katie nodded. “Take Jewel. I saddled her for you.”

He limped around to the small corral near the backyard, then led Jewel back toward the lock, where Katie took the reins to guide her across. Jewel was a good one, Cy thought, a veteran canal mule. The walkway didn’t scare her. He shuffled across, put a hand on the pommel, and bit his lip as he mounted the mule.

“Keep an eye on the lock,” he said, turning Jewel down the towpath. “And don’t wait up for me.

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